


from ache into daylight

by Ghostigos



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Second Person, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 09:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Snufkin learns to fall into new patterns.





	from ache into daylight

**Author's Note:**

> ( _but here i blur into you_ — once upon a time i decided love was too much like drowning)
> 
> this is something of a b-plot to [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045603). you don't necessarily have to read it to understand this story, but it does help with understanding moomintroll's stance throughout.
> 
> snufkin and moomin are in their late 20's - early 30's here
> 
> (comments and kudos are appreciated, as always)

**i.**

You've never been specifically asked about your family ties, but if you _were_ asked, you couldn't give a precise answer for it. On one hand, it's difficult to harbor ill-intent towards your parents with the foreknowledge you have now — that your abandonment was a matter of happenstance rather than outright malevolence. You hardly blame them for skimming over your half-blooded existence. You were bound to get lost.

On the other...well, you aren't sure you qualify as a case of emotional negligence, and you'd certainly hate to be. Your parents are not family and you've shunned the thought, but this is not common practice, and you know this from your travels.

Maybe if you were coddled more as a boy you wouldn't be so impassive to outside affections. Perhaps you'd be nicer to yourself, too, when you can't easily replicate love languages as swiftly as other folk. It's hard to grow attachment when you're so aware of your shortcomings.

Love, you've learned, has many definitions; it's a topic of debate, still, on whether or not it's worth it. And you think that maybe it's something of poison: it affects each body differently with some symptoms worse than others.

Not yourself, oh no. _That_ is a death sentence. Love is a wall of ivy and you worry it will overgrow and entangle you entirely, if unchecked. It's everything tied to roots and twigs you trip over on hikes, it's a sweet drink left outside for too long that grows sour when you reach to take a sip.

You've convinced yourself for so many seasons that love is something intangible, and therefore not worth investigating further.

(Surely, if you cannot define it, that must mean you're unworthy of it.)

 

**ii.**

When you admit the anchor in your heart is tied to Moomintroll, it's something akin to flying. He's so excited and hops up and down with you twisted into his arms, and you do share some laughs and kisses ( _finally,_ you sigh, _finally_ ). He says he loves you, and always will, and he says it so _easily._

Once you drift down from your high, the blind joy fluttering your heart crests into fright. You try to cast smiles about it, when Moomintroll announces your courtship ('about time!' you hear someone whisper, and isn't _that_ just something to consider), and you try to not feel yourself shrink when asked about the longevity of your romance and such.

Although you're inexperienced with love, you know it leaves a massive scar that will never fully heal over. You can't escape into the winters open-wounded, and yet...

"Moomintroll is quite a romantic," Snorkmaiden admits, plucking a stray dandelion. You're sitting on the riverbank with her, fishing and unspooling your relationship status. She appears more intrigued than envious when you question Moomin's immediate delve into commitment (you don't mention that it scares you). "He's very dedicated to whatever he sets his mind to — it's quite attractive, actually, and maybe that's what drove me to him, because I was so desperate to have myself as someone's challenge."

She lays on her back with a heaving sigh, gazing up at the clouds. Her eyes close with a smile. "How lucky that he's set his sights on you, Snufkin. You're a fortunate one, indeed."

You mumble something in response that could be taken as, _Yes, very fortunate._ But inside of you a dam begins to crack open.

 

**iii.**

It's a hot summer night; only a small breeze offers refreshment and the stars lazily wink into view overhead, bleeding light from the misty clouds shrouding the valley. The humid air clings to your fur like sap and you peel away clothing in agitation.

Moomintroll is here for the night, at your camp; he tries to duck away from your monthly irritations as best he's able — emphasis on 'tries'. Although you can't say you're ungrateful when he brings you medicine to abate your tightening abdomen, or food and drinks designed to ease your moods under the guise of 'Moominmamma insisted!'

As he packs himself into the corner of the tent, giving room for your thrashing tail and disgruntled figure, a inkling of thought surfaces. These new fears and doubts that come out of the woodwork ever since you two became an item are suffocating. They provide these jolts of shame and the realization 'oh, I don't provide enough', and that Moomintroll's sacrifices for you greatly outweigh the vice versa.

It's a bit pathetic, but it does promote how inconvenient you are with this — Moominpappa and Moominmamma say love is never easy but _all_ your love is never easy. Maybe Moomin is reaching his limits with you, which _should_ be a freeing thought so you don't feel so sick with longing in winter. But all you feel is a funny sensation curdling into your guts like sour milk.

Somehow this leads to you shucking away your remaining article of clothing: a binder given by Moominmamma to accommodate your monthly agenda. You turn to face Moomintroll, who's taken out a book he borrowed from his father's study; it takes a minute of incessant staring to grab his attention, but eventually you do. His ears and brows fly upward at seeing your exposed state.

His tone is hesitant, perhaps a little concerned: "Snufkin?"

You scoot closer to him, your paws kneading uncertainly into your kneecaps. Your brain is a swarming beehive, unable to grasp the true weight of what you're initiating.

Slowly, you reach for Moomintroll's paw — which he kindly extends — and guide it towards your heart. It beats wildly under Moomin's fingertips.

It takes a bit of encouragement, but eventually Moomintroll gets the hang of it: he adjusts himself straighter so both his paws can venture the areas you're often shielding. He asks permission before he skids across the fur on your elbows, then ribcage, then your stomach (which you flinch with laughter at and he avoids pressing there again, even with the sparkle of mischief so evident in his gaze). Your breasts, even, which he squeezes uncertainly before progressing elsewhere with a shake of his head, contemplating something private that you don't dwell on.

You take deep, stiff breaths and assure yourself that this is fine; whatever tendrils of fear inhabit your mind, they slowly recoil the more Moomintroll roams about your skin. His touch is cottony and soft like butterfly kisses, as though you'll flee his grasp at the wrong move.

His eyes shine like you're the sun and stars. When he says you're beautiful, you know he means it.

After, you're lying in his arms, still bare. He gives you a Moomin kiss on the forehead and thanks you for letting him see yourself.

It's terrifying, how he can say such things.

 

**iv.**

"I wish you would speak to me," he says one day. His tone is upheld but waning, like a leaf in the breeze. His true hurt is expelled by the watery glare he gives to you as he speaks.

This isn't the first you've heard of Moomintroll's woes concerning this — granted, it hasn't been voiced this explicitly, but it certainly isn't a new topic.

There are many falters in relationships, you've learned from the Moomins. There _is_ a middle ground, mind, but there are also trenches and battle stations; you have scurried underground in terms of airing out dirty laundy to Moomintroll, because you have your secrets and quite frankly you'd like to keep them. Everyone has their limits, and as long as you're not restraining complaints on your relationship, you see absolutely no reason to let up on this mindset.

When Moomintroll begins to scream, though, that's when you listen.

" _Why won't you talk to me??_ " His voice is chipped as he thrusts your guitar across the grassy fields, ripping it from your arms right when you were composing a tune. The instrument makes a bellowing twang as it lands on a patch of wildflowers. "Snufkin I _hate_ you!!"

You're appalled at your partner's behavior, your mouth hung agape. His glare grows optic when you don't answer, his eyes burning holes into your own widened pair.

Finally, tail drooping, he retreats; you catch a glimmer of tears rimming the bottoms of his eyes before turning and heading home. The dam in your heart shudders and breaks, leaving deep creases that you cannot fix alone. Yet somehow, you're able to shake the dirt off your lap and retrieve your guitar.

 

**v.**

You're a terrible person. You hurt every person who's ever come into your life until they leave you. You blame your social ineptness on circumstance and not because there's a bone-deep _wrongness_ about you. How _dare_ you presume you're capable of loving someone fiercely?

Moomintroll asks you for children, and you derail because of your own shortcomings. He'll ask you to stay and you never will because you yearn to retreat. He asks you to speak of your adventures and you withhold stories from him, because there is so little that you own. In every act of love handed to you, you're placcid and stale. You have nothing to offer him in return.

You feel...quite used, actually. Your heart has been carved out so Moomintroll could shut himself in there and rifle through you like a cabinet. Worst of all is that you _allowed_ this to happen.

...You don't cry. You find rare reasons to unclog this brimming ugliness inside your chest; logic outlives emotion, it is not a necessity to cry.

Which is what makes it offputting when, at the Moomins' house for supper, you drop to your knees and let out this pained _howl._ Your claws dig into your hair and pull, and a purr rips from your body so fiercely it's almost painful. You're shaking, the world is blurring, and you're so terribly upset and _bad,_ in every sense of the word.

The Moomins immediately whisk you upstairs and you're placed to bed with a cold rag on your forehead. There's a choir of hushes and soft tones that echo through your cobbled-up eardrums, and a hand that's constantly grasping your own.

You tell the world that you're sorry. You're sorry you're awful, you're sorry you can't speak up, you're sorry you leave early sometimes and don't come back immediately, you're sorry for leaving at all, you're sorry you're not good enough, you're sorry you know so much and yet you know nothing, you're sorry you can't stop running, you're sorry you don't understand, you're sorry you don't know where to start and when to stop, 

you're sorry you've never been in love before.

Moomintroll presses his forehead to your damp one, teary-eyed. You're croaky from screaming and your unforeseen fit has left you a hollow shell. You've spilled out all your grievances and they hang dark in the air. You can't stuff them back in now.

You're brought warm milk and instructed to stay the night, and Moomintroll refuses to leave your side. He melts into your huddled frame, spooning you with delicate paws encasing your middle.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to keep saying that," he whispers to you.

In his voice, there's forgiveness, and in your silence — a small revelation. A sprout amidst the debris.

Moomintroll's paws thread into yours, squeezing tightly. You try not to picture his fingers like roots digging into your hands.

 

**iv.**

Moominmamma's paws cusp over your set like a tender ghost as you stir the batter to a whipped texture. "No need to be so gentle," she chides gently. "The strawberries will not be tarnished in the batter. I can help you pour it into the pan once you're finished, if you'd like."

You nod as she turns to tend to the eggs. "I would like that, thank you, Moominmamma," you say. You're glad she offered assistance to your endeavor: your craftsmanship to making meals for two is rusty so your pancakes always come out rather choppy. Moomintroll deserves only the best pancakes around.

The house is quiet, with all residents still snuggled in bed. You'd prepped this surprise a bit out of left field, but Moominmamma seemed delighted to help you out, even at such early hours. Once you've cleaned the whisk, you roll up your sleeves just as Moominmamma approaches to take the reins. She shows you how to pour the batter accordingly and where to place the cakes so they don't meld together as they cook; admittedly, she does most of the work, but you appreciate her keeping you included.

She cleans her paws a moment after, then calls, "Would you come and help me chop the peppers, Snufkin?" You settle beside her as requested, commencing an easy pace of slicing the vegetables handed to you. It's a comfortable pattern, to cook with company; shame you don't do it as often as you'd like.

"It's so thoughtful of you to do this for Moomintroll," Moominmamma muses, the wisps of her crow's feet crinkling when she speaks. "I could never ask for a better beloved for my son. You're truly compassionate, Snufkin."

You duck your head, embarrassed. "It's nothing," you say hastily. "He would do the same for me."

She hums a little. "You sell yourself short rather often, dear. I don't think you know how happy you make him — or all of us, rather."

"I..." Moominmamma is as observant as a lurking hawk over prey, so you best not trip over yourself too much, lest you want a surprise intervention. So you lamely murmur, "Perhaps not."

She gives you a moment to simmer and boil over this, whilst collecting the herbs and veggies you'd chopped to sprinkle over the cream. "How lucky you are to have people in your life that love you so dearly, Snufkin," she says with a warm smile. "Some are not as fortunate. I hope one day you can embrace how much we care for you."

You swallow, mouth tightening. There's an ominity tugging at her words, bookending the blooming sensation opening your chest like a bird's morning tune.

When Moominmamma finishes up her eggs over cream, she assists in piling all the food onto a small tray she'd fished out for you. You top off the display of strawberry pancakes, eggs, and juice with a daisy you'd plucked on the walk over; might as well milk this gooey sentiment for all it's worth.

You wake Moomintroll gently, and he's immediately bubbling with excitement at your surprise, _insisting_ that you stay and share the meal with him. Moominmamma leaves you and Moomintroll to eat in bed alone, once she helps to adjust the tray so it doesn't messy the sheets. Moomin ferries bites over to you as he eats, spoonfeeding you like a baby bird, and you tolerate the sappiness of the moment for his own sake.

You find yourself scooting closer to him throughout, and deciding that modern romance isn't all that daunting to bask under, if you indulge accordingly.

 

**iii.**

It's evening, and Moomintroll is giggling at the campfire with a stupidly-dazed grin. He's blushing — clearly from the rum — and babbling on about poppyseeds and fish swimming upstream and alike, all nonsensical in nature.

Although bemused, you've elected to be the sober partner and keep Moomintroll on lockdown until the alcohol leaves his system. You cozy up his bedside with extra pillows before peeling some raw ginger for his tea. He's quite a cozy figure when drunk, as he snuggles into you bosom while you work. "You're wonderful," he says, voice muzzied.

"As are you," you reply, tilting your hat so you can mask your smile. "One moment, sweet, I'm nearly done."

He ignores you with a tipsy laugh. "You're fascinating, 'n soooo pretty. Like a...like a sunbeam at dusk."

"I'm flattered." You laugh as well, with heat sprouting onto the apples of your cheeks. The tea sets and you hand over the steamy mug to Moomintroll, propping it up to meet his lips. "Now drink this, it'll help keep your head steady till morning."

He quickly slurps up the ginger drink and you help him into bed, settling next to him underneath the canopy of starlight.

"...I'll have to leave soon," you find yourself saying. It's quiet and your words melt into the crisp autumn air.

"Mmmmm..." Moomintroll answers; he's bundled up tightly in your spare blankets but somehow manages to scoot himself closer to where you're laying.

You sigh, frowning to the stars. "I worry, sometimes, that I'll float away and never return. And I know it's silly, but when you look at me on that bridge...I worry that you'll abandon faith in me someday. And if I lose _you,_ then..."

 _I'll be quick to lose myself_ is something you don't dare utter. At your own confession a mixture of horror and relief surfaces, and you give the gravity of your words room to breathe in the twilight.

Then Moomintroll looks up with a clouded expression. He makes a loose gesture for you to scoot closer and you do so, discarding clothes easier than that one summer night. His breath is foul so you neglect spooning, but lying shoulder-to-shoulder in only undergarments feels just as intimate.

"Do you worry when I'm gone for so long?" you ask him.

You don't expect a response, so it's offputting when you receive one. Moomintroll buries his face into the side of your temple, his rum-breath wrinkling your nose. "No," he slurs. "You always come back."

He gives a hiccup before drifting into sleep.

You list sideways at your companion, mind blurred with thought, with your claws kneading into his woolly fur in desperation. There's a strange gravity to his sottish response, even if he hadn't intended it; Moomintroll has certainly grown more confident when snow falls, and has graduated from appearing so disheartened when you leave. Almost like your promises to him (and to yourself) mean something now, because you _do_ come back. You'd cross the earth thrice for Moomintroll, and you'd return to him just as eagerly. There's not much you _wouldn't_ do for Moomintroll.

You think this is love, then. This _has_ to be. And if it's not, you'd be doomed to experience it at all.

 

**ii.**

"Teety-Woo!" you call out. "What a surprise! Fancy some company?"

Ahead of you, the critter turns upon hearing his name. He halts for you with a friendly expression, and as you advance towards him you see that he's carrying piles of twigs in his paws.

"Hullo, Snufkin!" he greets you happily. "Off into the great unknown again?"

"It's getting too cold for me to stay," you admit. "And the clouds overhead promise heaping amounts of snow, so I best leave before then." Nodding towards his bundle of sticks, you venture, "Would you like a hand?"

"Oh! That'd be pleasant," Teety-Woo sighs; you exchange the sticks and he takes a moment to pop out his back, arching like a sleepy cat. "I've been carrying several loads back to my den, you see, and it's doing quite a heavy number on my spine. C'mon, I'll lead the way."

You walk a bit, carrying idle chatter about the impending cold weather, about the birds and fellow neighbors. The conversation leads back, inevitably, to Moomintroll and his whereabouts. You explain that you've already said your goodbyes and he should be at home preparing for hibernation.

Teety-Woo grows quiet when you announce this. You ask, "Something on your mind?"

"No... Well, I suppose so," he decides, growing strangely somber. He stops you to take a rest and you both settle on a log, where you place the sticks into your lap. "It's just that...do you remember what you said some springs ago, about freedom and admiration?"

You nod. "I remember, yes."

"Well," Teety-Woo stalls before he asks, "Do you still believe that?"

You think for a minute, then admit, "I'm not quite sure anymore."

"Ah, so your time with Moomintroll has left you wondering?" he says with a sage nod. "I figured as much. I actually had a preposition for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I've been doing some thinking myself on what you said, and I've decided: maybe admiration can be smothering, yes, but perhaps it can be freeing as well? Not the same as before, but...maybe in a different way."

You prop your chin onto your paws, inspecting your friend closely. "Have you found someone you admire, Teety-Woo?"

"Me? Oh, no, not yet, I haven't the time," Teety-Woo laughs a little. "But my point still stands! I'm tied by my mother — I love her very much, of course — and she demands much sometimes, but I don't find myself too bothered by it. In fact, her needing me and me needing her, well...it's quite a fuzzy feeing, I think! It's a joyous occasion to be loved."

"Hm," you say. "Never minding her demands?"

"Well, of course I need my own time to breathe," he shrugs, "but she offers it to me so I can't say I ever feel trapped. And I think that if Moomintroll is the same, then you should find no reason to be so upset when you must leave! Love shouldn't be a death sentence — it should be scary but _fascinating._ "

You drink in the words, and you find that they go down smooth like warm honey. Perhaps you've been shackled to nothing but your own fears for too long, and it _is_ true that you're granted solitude, even if it grates on Moomin's mood — but at the same time, you're free to leave. You've always been. _You're_ the one that initiates the promises.

Your feet are oddly lighter when you resume the walk to Teety-Woo's den. He instructs you on where to lay the twigs, thanking you for your assistance.

"Perhaps a quick tune before you leave?" he proposes. "I'm quite fond of your song for Moomintroll."

Upon request, you pull out your mouth organ and begin the song, relishing in how it wafts through the skeletal trees overhead. Teety-Woo listens in formal attention, and a purr erupts from your chest when you realize how joyous — and, yes, _freeing_ — it is to sing Moomintroll's theme. 

 

**i.**

Over winter, you've decided something: that love is not graded by definition and you're free to experience it as you please. You will trip, yes, because you are novice to the experience, but your arms are wide open to change because you love Moomintroll with everything you have. You're not trodden when you return in spring, and your aches of longing are not chains. They are wings that carry you to safety, to home.

You meet Moomintroll on that bridge again, and you're alight with newfound wonder. You have doubts, always, but you're willing to place them into the hands of those who matter. And Moomintroll — sweet, dearest, lovely Moomintroll — matters more than all the valleys and meadows and mountains across the seven seas.

When he falls to his knees and asks for your hand in marriage, you find that you already have the answer.


End file.
